


The Trials and Tribulations of Bedding Very Young Women

by Ophelia_Raine



Series: O Politico [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A little bit of West Wing vibes in here, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Politics, And a little smut along the way, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Hotel Sex, Just a tiny touch, May/December Relationship, Modern Westeros, Older Man/Younger Woman, Petyr pulls the strings, Political Campaigns, Tywin Lannister for President
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-23 03:44:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14926478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ophelia_Raine/pseuds/Ophelia_Raine
Summary: It’s the annual Westerosi National Day cocktail celebrations at the Red Keep, where every political hack is out having a drink and a schmooze.For presidential hopeful, Tywin Lannister, and his crafty campaign manager, Petyr Baelish, there is no rest for the wicked. Especially when their machinations involve two rather fetching young women.No one's sleeping tonight.





	The Trials and Tribulations of Bedding Very Young Women

**Author's Note:**

  * For [apocketfulofwry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/apocketfulofwry/gifts).



[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/162326344@N04/42737157872/in/dateposted-public/)

_This bipartisan kumbaya is all very well and good when you have half a bottle of Arbor Gold in you,_ thinks Petyr testily as he watches the ruddy-faced former President Robert Baratheon get handsy with the current Chief of Staff. 

Melisandre, in her trademark red jacket suit, merely returns Robert's familiarity with a professional cordiality that Petyr knows is just for show. Mel puts up with the fat bastard only because she worships the ground that the current President walks on. In truth, Robert is just one pillow talk away from getting sent to Essos as an ambassador of goodwill — sibling or no, Petyr smirks.   

No Arbor Gold for Petyr tonight, but he knows he can scarcely afford to even blink for a second this close to the end of the race.  

It’s an increasingly rare thing leading up to the presidential election that both parties agree to lay down sticks for one night in a show of shared patriotism. Westerosi’s National Day: a relatively new invention, one of President Stannis Baratheon’s earnest attempts to foster more nationalistic fervour across the Seven Kingdoms. People are grateful for the opportunity to toast to the nation and get sloshed, Petyr supposes. But they’ll be even more grateful by the end of the year when Stannis finally finishes his second term and steps down. 

_And Tywin can show them all how to really get shit done,_ Petyr smiles to himself. 

It's been a good two weeks for the Lannister campaign and Olenna Tyrell is brave to show her face tonight, seeing how they just took a beating in their home state of Highgarden over the leaked video showcasing Loras's bedroom antics with a certain prince of Dorne — all Petyr's orchestration, of course. Olyvar is _so_ handy with a spycam.  

But Olenna is tough as old leather anyway, the only other political player with the balls and the brain to take Tywin on and even think to win. _Highly unlikely,_ Petyr smirks to himself again. He is a numbers man, and the Tyrells still don’t have the right ones. In truth, Petyr is ambivalent about the political spectrum. If Olenna had the numbers, he’d be a Liberal tomorrow. But as for now and in the foreseeable future, Petyr is a staunch Conservative. 

He sees _her_ across the room again and it is more than a coincidence that he does. Sansa stands momentarily alone now, her back against the curved wall. His eyes rake over her short wine-red cocktail dress that flares rather becomingly and shows a hint of bottom whenever she turns on her heel. That she’s standing in his line of vision once more tells him that it’s about high time he approaches this delectable creature — long limbed, long hair, long stare and all. 

_Why the hell not. He's on a winning streak, after all._

“Hello Sansa,” he murmurs now as he stands right beside her and gazes across the crowd. To anyone else, they look like two subtly bored cocktail guests catching their breath from the non-stop political kissy-stabby in the middle of the room.  

He’s eager to speak to her now even if he doesn’t show it. Sansa has things to say as well, and there are a few false starts as they trip over one another before Petyr smiles and asks her to speak first. 

“When I… came over Tuesday evening, and it was already very late, and we didn’t really get to talk, we just—“ 

“I have a vague recollection.” 

“Yeah…” And Sansa starts to flush even as she continues to stare dead straight at the room.  

“Um…” she hesitates, “did that... did I make you feel bad?” 

“Bad? In what way, sweetling.” 

“You know — used.” 

“For my body?” 

“I was very forward.” 

“I’ll get over it." 

She glances over at him now and sees that he’s grinning, and she can't help it. She starts smiling too. 

“It’s just… I mean, I know we need to talk about this and I don’t want you to think I’m avoiding the discussion, but that night? It was _just so wonderful_ to—“ 

“Not talk?” 

She sighs happily. “Not talk.” 

“Not with words anyway,” he can't resist adding with a put-on leer and Sansa laughs a little, rocking back and forth on her heels like a self-conscious little girl. 

_Even though her body is anything but,_ Petyr recalls with smug satisfaction. 

“So…” 

“So...” And he inches a little closer in spite of his leeriness of the room with a thousand eyes. “You want to do it again tonight, don’t you.” 

Her tone is low and knowing when she replies with, “You do too.” 

They stare into the ballroom again, each of them scanning the crowd for a hint of scrutiny and suspicion. It appears they’re safe for now, but it’s still risky. 

“Your room?” she murmurs hopefully. He always gets one of the big suites, being the big kahuna of Tywin’s campaign and all. But Petyr shakes his head slightly. 

“Too risky,” he decides. “People are always looking for me, doesn’t matter the hour. They’ll come knocking when they need me. I can’t risk you being in the room then.” 

It's all deftly arranged in the next minute. He’ll come to her room as soon as he's ready and able. She passes him her keycard behind her back and their fingers graze, a snap of static only adding to their frisson. 

Someone catches his eye then. The Secretary of the Interior. Petyr smiles benignly and raises his hand in acknowledgement, signalling that he’ll come over to the middle of the ballroom and join the milieu. 

Just as he turns to leave, he slides a finger down the length of her arm, the feather-light touch suggestive and sure as Sansa goosepimples in response.  

* * *

Tywin cannot wait for fucking farces like these to be over so he can just get on with governing. He absolutely _loathes_ campaigning with the heat of a thousand suns. The pantomime of it. Having to make nice with every idiot because you just never know when a tiny insult can turn into a ticking time bomb that could blow this game up.

At least he has Baelish, Tywin grimaces to himself. Someone who practically thrives on ingratiating himself with the hoi polloi in King's Landing. And Baelish comes with an impressive network of informants, coupled with an equally impressive amorality and questionably creative methods of dealing with campaign issues. Useful little man. 

The Chancellor of Braavosi's Exchequer has been trying to catch Tywin's eye for the last fifteen minutes and Tywin raises his glass to the Chancellor now and pastes a genial smile over his own sneer, something he had to suffer the indignity of practising in the privacy of his bedroom with Petyr after that damn photographer took Tywin's "unhappy snap".   

He really has very little time for this tripe. 

"What a total bore this is," a familiar voice echoes his thoughts crisply. Olenna Tyrell appears beside him now and waves her hand dismissively at the room. "All this chatter, this noise. Can't wait for this dreary business to finish before we can take the Red Keep and start bloody governing." 

Tywin drawls. "I admire your optimism, Senator." 

"You wait, you smug bastard. We'll bounce back. We've got a few tricks of our own, you know." 

"Hmmm..." Tywin returns, unconvinced. The Old Bag beside him is a formidable dragon and every time the media go on and on about her age and how she's ancient, he wants to clout them over their collective head with a two-by-four. Olenna may be fourteen years older than he is, but she's no doddery old fool. He'll give her that, at least.  

Very privately, he rather admires his political rival. Not that he'd ever tell her.  

"How's Loras?" Tywin muses instead and Olenna snorts indelicately.  

"Broken pecker, after I was through with him for being stupid enough to get caught like that. Your man Baelish, I presume." 

"You have a lot of nerve to accuse us like that." 

"I have a lot of experience, you mean." Another indelicate snort as Olenna turns to face her oldest political adversary squarely. 

"You're an arrogant bastard, Tywin. And you've won this round. But you and I know the game isn't over yet. All it takes is one misstep at the wrong time. Both of us are old enough to remember how easily a single scandal can bring down a great name. I'll leave you with that thought, at least. That, and one more thing, Tywin." Olenna steps closer and leans up into his ear. 

"I always get the last laugh. Now smile, Congressman." 

The official Red Keep photographer bounds towards them now for a photo opp too delicious to pass up and both the Old Lion and the Queen of Thorns lean in automatically. Powerful stances, but relaxed as if to say, "Vote for me. I'm intimidating AF but friendly!"  

Tywin watches as Olenna walks away to work the rest of the room. He _will_ have the last laugh, he thinks to himself now. In fact, he's already laughing.  

Tywin Lannister, Presidential Shoo-in, stares across the room to where a particular young lady now stands, one hand poised on a cocked hip, an almost coquettish smile tugging on the corner of her mouth. Margaery Tyrell is wearing green tonight. It's his favourite colour on her, except this little number she's chosen tonight is just that — little. And just a little too sheer so he can almost make out the protrusion of her pert little nipples from here. 

Later, he decides, he will have words with her. 

* * *

"What are you doing here!" Sansa stares at her friend in surprise as Margaery falls on her neck and gives her air kisses and bear hugs.

"Same thing as you, I suspect!" Margaery chirps. "Here to support family. Well, in your case — here to support your boyfriend's family. Where is Joffrey anyway?" 

And Sansa scans the room guiltily, having forgotten to look in the last half hour. She hopes he isn't off making out with that intern from the Communications department again. The embarrassment is one thing, but the social pressure to dump his sorry ass after that is what she can ill afford right now. 

Especially since she and Petyr have only just started. Finally.  

"In town for the week?" Margaery asks hopefully. 

"Just until Tuesday. You?" 

"Grandmother's campaign leaves for Old Town late tomorrow — oh shit! I probably shouldn't have told you that," giggles Margaery now. That last bowl of punch is bloody _lethal_ , Margaery thinks to herself, sucking the alcohol from her tongue. Thank goodness Sansa is as harmless as a bunny rabbit and Joffrey is about as politically astute as a carrot. 

"It's so weird, isn't it?" half-whispers Sansa now. "I keep forgetting that we're technically on opposing sides. Where are all of you staying?" 

"At the Grand Hyatt, just across. You?" 

"Also just across. Next to yours, I think. Ritz Carlton." 

"Ooh fancy," Margaery teases and there's a small pause before she adds innocently, "Got your own room? Or sharing with Joffrey..." 

Sansa laughs. "There's no way his mother will let us share a room, are you kidding me? But yeah!" Sansa smiles happily. "Got a room to myself. Got the garden view too, not just the dirty old street." 

"Very nice..." Margaery agrees. "Sans, I have a _crazy_ idea." 

"Oh?" 

"What if I crash at your place tonight?" 

"Tonight?" And Sansa falters now. "Why tonight!" 

"I'm only in town until tomorrow afternoon, and we really don't get to see each other much at all, ever since the campaign started. Come on, it'll be fun!" 

"We'd better not..." Sansa replies slowly, even as her mind rushes through the possible reasons to deflect and dissuade. "We'll get in trouble if someone sees you and realises that you're Olenna's granddaughter." 

"Pssh, I'll be careful, of course! And use the usual service entrances. Come on... it'll be fun! I haven't had anyone decent to gossip to in months!" 

"Well..." Sansa smiles slowly, "it _has_ been ages since we've had any kind of sleepover..." 

"Great! Do you have your spare key with you? We'll have to return to your room separately, of course." 

"Here, take mine. I uh... left my other key with Joffrey." 

"Of course you did, you sly minx," grins Margaery. "Sure you don't mind?" 

And Sansa sighs as she steals a look across the room to where Petyr is standing, looking so handsome in his dark tailored suit tonight. She had come all prepared and everything. 

But she turns back to her oldest friend with the brightest smile she can possibly muster now. "Of course not, silly. I'll see you in my room later. Can't wait." 

* * *

_Idiot,_ thinks Tywin now as that sticky journalist from the Westerosi Times trails after him like a mosquito that won't take a hint. 

Tywin grits his teeth and sharply inhales before turning around to face the tenacious bloodsucker. It takes quite a bit of effort to force the joviality in his usually stern voice. What was it that Baelish is always going on about? Approachability.  

_You are never going to be folksy, sir. But try to talk like the common people once in a while. Shows you understand them enough to represent their needs._

"I don't know that you want a piece of this, Cerrick." And Tywin gestures to the sign on the door. "Even presidential candidates need to take a shit once in a while. We are human after all!" 

It works like a charm. "Totally understand, Congressman Lannister!" And Cerrick backtracks now, a conspiring grin on his face. Tywin tries not to grimace as a camera flash goes off, the sign to the Gents prominent on the door behind him. 

_Fucking peasants and their toilet humour._

As soon as Cerrick rounds the corner, Tywin opens the slim panel to the left of the toilet door. It's a little-known room that used to be the janitor's quarters until one government administration wisely decided that the janitors could bloody well keep their supplies and take a rest elsewhere. The room was since refashioned as a small sitting room of sorts. A secret sanctuary where political operatives can escape for more private conversations, away from prying eyes.    

It's fairly dark inside but the ambient light from the ballroom is just enough for Tywin to make out that he's not alone. 

"What is this urgent thing?" he demands now as the door closes behind him, plunging the windowless room into darkness. 

And in response, Margaery tiptoes on her high heels and winds her arms around his neck, pulling him down to her so she can kiss him, sliding her tongue into his mouth almost immediately. 

"Great news, darling." And he can practically hear the self-satisfied grin in her voice. "I'm staying at the Ritz!" 

"And how did you wrangle that, you minx?" 

"Simple. I'm crashing in Sansa's room. But I'll find a way to slip out to you somehow, don't you worry!" 

"There is an inherent flaw in your plan, Margaery," Tywin frowns, pushing her gently back. "You can't come to my suite. It's too risky. I have personnel everywhere and even if I were to reduce the security detail, I have staffers running to and from my room. It's campaign time. We're three weeks out to the vote, and my suite is a second office half of the time. It's a disaster." 

"Well, that's no good!" Margaery replies feelingly. He hears her disappointment and matches it with his own. He could really do with a good, hard fuck tonight, honestly. 

"We'll have to use Sansa's room," Tywin decides now. "We'll have to boot her out somehow." 

"Yes, but how!" 

Tywin's eyes glint in the dark. "I'll speak to Joffrey." 

* * *

The room is empty, much to Petyr's relief. He stops and leans back until he spots Sansa through the formal double doors. She's still in the ballroom but she sees him and he signals discreetly for her to come to him now. He pushes the slim panel to the left of the toilet door and slips inside, turning the light on so Sansa doesn't trip over the rug when she gets in here.

"What is this room?" she wonders, looking around curiously. 

"Solace." And he crushes his mouth to hers, catching her gasp of surprise and feeling her melt then sag against him as she sweetly responds. She kisses him back with such enthusiasm and emits such girlish sounds and sighs that his cock immediately hardens. He hopes he's not leaking right through. 

"Margaery is staying in my roooooom," she wails suddenly, her disappointment palpable. "I have to take my key back from you. Do you still have it?" 

"How did that happen?" asks Petyr, bemused. 

"She just wants to catch up because we hardly get to. And also get away from the madness of the campaign trail at Olenna's. By the way, they're setting off for Old Town tomorrow." 

"Attagirl," he purrs, rather pleased. He had wondered as much but they keep quite a tight ship over there, as can be expected. Petyr loves it when intel makes its way to him in the most surprising of ways. He softly kisses her again and hears her groan of frustration. 

"Can you slip away instead, sweetling?" 

"I can try," Sansa replies, sounding unsure. "But we still have to find another room! Can't we use yours?" 

It's still a risk, but perhaps one that Petyr is increasingly willing to take as the festivities of the day wear on and the night gets away from them. The team had only just checked in late this afternoon and have hardly had the time to set up shop again.  

Traffic to his room could be lighter than usual tonight. It might actually be quiet. 

"We'll have to pretend we're not in. You'll have to be very quiet this time, sweetling." And the look he shoots her sends a heat straight to her pussy so it starts to throb a little. 

"You gonna help me be quiet?" she asks huskily and almost buckles at the knees when he smirks his answer. 

"No." 

"Huh." And she twines her arms around his neck again and kisses him slowly, feeling him as he starts to grind gently into her. 

"I'll find a way to give Margaery the slip," promises Sansa feverishly.  

"Attagirl." 

* * *

_Bemused_ doesn’t even cut it. Sansa is actually vexed and almost wishes now that Joffrey did make out with the intern from the Communications department.

Because then, perhaps, he wouldn’t be doing _this_. 

“When was the last time we fucked, huh?” His forehead creases, trying to think before he gives up anyway. “I want to do it tonight!” 

“Joffrey…” Sansa giggles, lightly batting him away like a dirty fly. “I thought you said your mother watches you like a hawk and we can’t!” 

“Screw my mother,” he snaps. “Grandfather assures me that he’s spoken to her anyway. And he wants me to make more of an effort with you.” 

That makes even less sense than Joffrey suddenly wanting a roll in the hay. Sansa is perplexed, the cogs in her head going full bore even as she keeps her kittenish smile. Why in seven hells would Tywin Lannister care whether or not Joffrey is making an effort with her at all? 

“He just kept going on and on and on…” whines Joffrey now. "Kept saying that we’re close, that the election is only three weeks away, that the messaging has always been on family values and the media are watching. He says he knows you’re only my girlfriend but that it’s important that we come across as being 'responsible, serious adults in responsible, serious relationships' blah blah blah…” 

“Oh Joffy, I know you always take care of me,” Sansa replies anxiously. A whole night with Joffrey! And she had been SO looking forward to a very different night between the sheets. Maybe if she jerked him off real fast twice in a row, so he falls asleep instead…  

Sansa looks at the clock on the wall. Fifteen minutes of dry humping… ten minutes wank, fifteen for the break between, and then another twenty minutes to half an hour to get skinny Joffy Junior singing the national anthem again… Maybe she can shave five, ten minutes off if she pays lip service instead. She stifles a groan. 

But something else is starting to dawn on her as well. What a perfectly natural alibi, she wants to laugh. Margaery wouldn’t have to know the truth, and she’d be perfectly understanding about girlfriend duties. Marge would practically shoo her out the room, knowing her. 

Now if only she can manage Joffrey… 

“Your grandfather is so right, Joffy,” she says meekly now. “We really should be responsible, serious adults. I’m… I didn’t bring anything, and I’m not on the pill.” _Liar liar, pants on fire._ "D-did you bring any, by chance?” 

“Of course not, you stupid cow,” Joffrey bites back bitterly. “What would I be doing with your pills! You stupid bitch.” 

“I was actually referring to condoms—“ 

“That too! I keep telling you — if you don’t want to get pregnant, then come fucking prepared!” 

_Nice one, Joffrey._ Sansa tamps down the urge to empty the month’s contraceptives down his throat. She’d have to get another prescription, sure. But it’d be totally worth the ride to the hospital and watching him get his stomach pumped. 

Instead she leans in and kisses him tenderly on the cheek. “Love you, Joffy. But I think, for your grandfather’s sake, that we don’t do anything rash. Not while we’re so close to election day, huh? And then there’s all that time before the inauguration too. We don’t want a whoopsy baby, do we? Just won’t play nice in the media.” 

Joffrey’s jaw drops open. “So that’s it? We’re not fucking?!” 

Sansa shakes her head sadly. “We have to take one for the team, Joffy.” 

* * *

“Of _course_ I understand!” Margaery practically cheers.

Sansa frowns. “I just feel so bad. You snuck in here, you wanted to gossip…”: 

Margaery blows a raspberry in disdain. “Oh please. I’m a big girl. Besides. The Ritz has better TV. You go be with your man and seriously, don’t worry about me at all. I’ll be quite happy here.” 

“You sure?” 

“JUST GO!” And Margaery squeals again in excitement as Sansa finally smiles and hops off the bed. 

“You’re the best, Marge. I’m such a shit friend. I’ll make it up to you, promise!” 

And Sansa watches as Marge makes good on her word, shrugging on her flannel PJs before slipping into the bathroom to get ready for bed. Sansa dashes around the room now, scrambling about for the bags of petals she had stashed everywhere.  

Two things guaranteed to make Petyr hard, Sansa has learnt. One is short skirts, and tonight’s dress was a good appetiser. But Petyr’s always had this thing for younger women and... flowers. 

Sansa blames that movie, _Westerosi Beauty_ — the one where the nubile nymphette is lying in bed with nothing on except strategically placed rose petals. Well, she’s brought the motherlode of them tonight. Or as many as would fit into her luggage anyway. 

Margaery waits until Sansa sounds out her cheery goodbye. And then she’s out in a flash, dashing about to tidy the room. Her face is done, smokey eyeshadow on, hair falling down over her face on one side, laciest barely-there lingerie on. Pubes mercilessly waxed. 

She had texted Tywin as soon as she’d entered the bathroom. The gods only know how long it will take him to extricate himself from his duties — and especially his wingman, Baelish — before he can make his way to her room.  

There’s a sudden knock on the door and Margaery gives a muffled shriek before she clears her throat and calls out instead in her breathiest voice, words dripping with double entendre: 

“I’m coming!” 

There’s a pause, and then another impatient knock on the door. Margaery dims the last light in the room before she walks over. _How impatient,_ she grins to herself. 

She peers through the peephole. There’s no one there.  

_Strange._

She’s just about to lift the security chain when she hears his voice. 

“Sansa, fucking open the door. I got them.” Pause. "Darling.” 

Margaery Tyrell opens the door to find Joffrey Fucking Baratheon holding up a shiny row of twelve brand new condoms. 

* * *

“Well? Where is she?”

“Joffrey honey, are you sure you’re in the right room?” 

Margaery’s looking at him all concerned, even as she’s got her tiny silk robe wrapped tight around her even tinier lingerie. Gods, she hopes his self-centredness pays dividends tonight and he doesn’t actually notice… 

“Where else could she be!” 

“She’s on her way to you!” 

And Joffrey actually looks confused now. Meanwhile, Margaery’s typing one-handed behind her back to Tywin. 

_Abort, Abort, Abort!_

“Fucking women!” And Joffrey tosses the twelve condoms on the nearest table before jumping and landing on the bed, shoes still on. “You on the phone to Sansa? I left mine behind. Tell her I’m here and to come back. I’m not traipsing around the hotel fucking looking for her. She can come to me!” He flicks on the telly and scrounges around for the remote, turning the volume up when he finds the wrestling. 

Margaery is just texting Sansa when Joffrey’s head pops up suddenly. 

“Heeeeeyyy…” she hears his nasally voice suddenly sharpen in suspicion. “What are you doing here, anyway? Aren’t you in enemy territory?” 

_Shit, shit, shit!_

“Hmmm?” she smiles instead and tries to affect her most vacuous look. “What do you mean?” 

Text to Tywin meanwhile:  

_Heeeeeeeeeeeeeelp!_

* * *

Sansa is still throwing the petals around the room when she gets the text from Margaery that makes her drop the bag and squeak in horror.

_Oh crap!_ And then she’s stretching the mouth of the bags wide open as she’s frantically scooping all the petals back in. 

She stops midway to text Petyr with trembling hands. 

_Don’t come back yet. Returning to my room. Joffrey there waiting for me. We might be busted!_

There’s no way in hell those petals won’t bruise like this. Sansa stifles a sob as she uses both her arms now and sweeps them off the bed in long broad strokes. 

* * *

_Just his damn luck, honestly._

But even Mother can’t help him out of this, Joffrey knows, as he tries to wipe the sulk from his face. When Grandfather calls you to his room, you’d fucking better turn up even if you’re balls deep in a cunt.  

Though what were the chances that the Old Lion would call him in for a chat twice in one night? Fucker’s going bloody senile… 

“When I said ‘spend more time with Sansa’, I didn’t mean you to go and diddle the girl!” Tywin growls at him now, and Joffrey flinches. 

“I just wanted to spend some quality time with her like you told me to,” Joffrey whines in his defense and Tywin narrows his hooded eyes.  

“Sneaking around the hotel holding _this?_ ” And Tywin tosses the twelve condoms carelessly towards the snivelling little brat. Joffrey has always been his least favourite. “We’re _Lannisters,”_ Tywin thunders now. "We don’t go doorknocking for sex in public places — what if someone had seen you? The hotel’s mostly sealed, but all it takes is one mobile phone, one dirty picture, boy. Don’t be a bloody fool!” 

“Then what about Margaery,” Joffrey splutters now, indignant. “Aren’t you glad I turned up? Because then, we wouldn’t have found out that Sansa is harbouring a spy!” 

“Margaery isn’t any more a spy than you can be accused of strategic thinking,” Tywin scoffs. “You know as well as I do that she’s only here to have a girls’ night in with Sansa. She doesn't care about the campaign. Half the time, she looks absolutely bored with it all. The both of them are just a pair of silly giggling girls. Enemy indeed!” And he glowers now. “You’re wasting my time.” 

“But—“ 

“Enough. You are tired. It’s time you went to your room.”  

_Pause._

“Put those condoms back down." 

* * *

As soon as Margaery ascertains that it is indeed Sansa at the door, she flings it open.

“Where the hell have you been!” 

And then Sansa notices as Margaery stares at the armful of rose-petal bags in her arms. Margaery’s gaze drops to the floor now, and it’s only when Sansa turns around that she realises what she’s done. 

“Well, I guess I could always follow the trail of petals to find my answer,” Margaery drawls as Sansa squeaks. 

“Shit!” 

“Indeed!” But Sansa is too busy right now. The bags of petals are dropped to the floor as Sansa scrambles about the corridor picking up as many as she can find. 

“I can’t remember which lift I took!” she wails now. 

“Nevermind that. Just make sure there aren’t any petals left on this floor and you should be quite safe.” 

Sansa nods and Margaery tries not to think of how crawling like a sniffer dog around the carpet of the Ritz Calton is the last thing she envisioned doing tonight.  

The doggy bit, yes. But not quite like this, no. 

“Alright girl,” Margaery grimaces when they’re finally back in Sansa’s room. “You owe me the big fat truth now. Spill. Who were you with?” 

“Nobody, Marge.” And ain’t that the truth. Sansa sighs. Her special night with Petyr is starting to look all but bust. 

“Well, that can’t be it. Because you definitely weren’t with Joffrey. With this.” And Margaery gestures vaguely behind her, in the direction of those blasted bags of petals. 

There is no easy way out of this, Sansa knows. And in truth, she’s been dying to tell someone her biggest secret. 

“It’s Petyr.” 

“Peter. Peter who.” 

“Petyr. Congressman Lannister’s campaign manager. Petyr Baelish.” 

Margaery’s jaw drops. “No shit!” 

“He’s really not that old…” Sansa begins now, already defensive. “And I know he’s a shark and all… and you probably hate him in Tyrell Land, come to think of it.” Sansa belatedly counts off the many, many, _many_  painful ways Petyr had stymied Olenna’s campaign, cringing when she finally ends with Margaery’s brother, Loras.  

Margaery is strangely quiet. 

“You angry?” Sansa asks eventually. 

“Nope.” 

“Surprised?” 

“Hell, yeah! But hey, if you really like him and he makes you happy… who am I to judge.” 

Sansa’s eyebrows shoot up. “Thanks, Marge! That’s actually really encouraging.” 

And Margaery makes a noncommittal sound that Sansa doesn’t quite understand. There’s a natural silence in the room as each woman gets lost in her own thoughts. 

“So was that it? You were on your way to his room?” 

“I was already there,” Sansa explains now. “We had to use his room because you’re here, you see. But even when I was there setting up, two of our staffers already knocked on his door. It’s not a great location for a tryst, to be honest.” 

Margaery sighs deeply. “You want your room back.” 

“Yes please. If it doesn’t put you out too much.” 

And Margaery smiles now. “Don’t worry about me, darling. And actually, I’m kinda thrilled you’re diddling someone else. And behind that twat Joffrey’s back too! You go girl!” 

And Sansa cringes. She really hasn’t sorted out her exit strategy with Joffrey yet. 

It takes hardly any time at all for Margaery to gather her things and exit her room, hugging Sansa on her way out amidst promises to have a real sleepover ‘when all this election nonsense blows over’. 

Margaery calls the Congressman as soon as the door closes behind her. 

“We have a problem.” 

* * *

In the end, it’s always money that seems to save the day. Fling enough of it at a problem, and usually it goes away. 

At least, that’s the Lannister philosophy. 

Tywin’s latest plan involves Margaery booking an extra suite but placing it on his own line of credit. 

“I have an account with this hotel.” 

“Why can’t you do it!” 

“I’m in the middle of a phone conference with Olenna, President Baratheon, and the Ambassador of Yi Ti. And that’s all I can say about this now. Find a way, Margaery.” 

Right. Find a way she will. 

Sansa’s face is one of worry mixed with surprise and a tinge of annoyance when she opens the door.  

“I need a disguise.” 

“What?” 

“Look. I just crawled around the fourteenth floor of the Ritz to pick up your incriminating trail of petals, Gretel. Just… help me out here and do me a solid. Hide me. I need to go to the front counter and book a room.” 

“Why can’t you just go back to your room at the Grand Hyatt?” 

And now it’s Margaery’s turn to clamp her mouth shut. 

“Margaery…” And Sansa gives her a look that Margaery knows to mean the gig is up. Sansa is an incurable romantic, deep down. Her radar for these things is, frankly, scary. Varys — the Director of National Intelligence himself — has _nothing_ on Sansa once she senses a romance.  

“Let me into your room first.” 

* * *

“Seven hells!”

There are petals _everywhere_. Sansa's obviously been busy again. 

“I can’t tell you, Sans!” Margaery pleads. “I really, really can’t!” 

“But that’s not fair!” Sansa is indignant. “I just told you about Petyr!” 

“Only because you got busted. If this night hadn’t happened the way it has, would you have told me? Honestly?” 

Sansa thinks about it. And no, Margaery’s right. As much as there had been the temptation to tell someone about Petyr, Sansa probably would have still kept that to herself as far as possible. Self-preservation and all. 

Still. Sansa is intrigued. 

“Is it someone I know?” And Margaery groans. 

“Just don’t guess. Please!” 

“You want a disguise, you play by my rules. Someone our age? Or older.” 

A strangled sound leaks from the back of Margaery’s throat as Sansa raises an eyebrow.  

“So older, then.” 

“Look. I can’t tell you!” Margaery is desperate now. The night is slipping away and if truth be told, she’s getting kinda sleepy herself. All this sexpectation has the unfortunate effect of tiring out a lady when it’s sustained for too long… 

“Someone in this building, obviously…” And Sansa furrows her brow. “Jaime Lannister?” 

_This is a terrible idea,_ Margaery realises now. _This is hell._

“It’s Jaime, isn’t it!” 

“No, it’s not Jaime. Look. I just — please, Sansa! I will pledge my kidney to you if you should need one some day. Just don’t make me say it!” 

“Then find your own disguise!” 

And Margaery’s had it.  

“If you don’t help me, I’m moving back into this room and you can scoop up your damn petals yourself!” 

_Touché_ , thinks Sansa now with no small measure of dismay, glancing back at her bed of roses.  

“Please, Sans?” Margaery begs now. “We’re running out of time!” 

And Sansa finally caves. “Alright. In fact, I’ll do one better. I’ll book the room for you.” 

“Suite.” 

“Sorry?” 

“I need to book a suite.” 

And Margaery watches in horror as the dots connect, as Sansa’s lips part, as her eyes start to widen, revealing a startled, startling blue. 

“It’s Tywin!” she breathes and at Margaery’s stunned silence, Sansa cups her mouth with a hand. 

“Oh my gods!” 

“Sssshhhhhhh!” hisses Margaery. “You fucking can’t tell anyone. _Anyone_ , do you hear me!” 

“OH MY GODS!” 

“Sansa!” begs Margaery, trying to break through her shock. Trying to impress upon her friend the enormity of the truth, the absolute need for this to be sealed in a vault.  

More so than Sansa’s relationship with Petyr. More so than even Sansa cheating on Joffrey. This, _this_ will break his candidacy. Truly.  

And to destroy Tywin’s chances is to destroy the man. And Margaery cannot have that. 

But Sansa has a stake in all this as well. 

_“No one must know!”_ she says now, staring at Margaery as if she, of all people, wouldn’t understand. “Do you hear me? No one — not a soul outside this room — must know! Petyr’s worked so hard, _so hard_ to get them this far. Something like this…. It has to be absolutely secret!” 

And all Margaery can do is nod dumbly. 

Sansa picks up the receiver of the landline in the room. “Suite, did you say?” 

“Don’t you have to go downstairs—“ 

“This is Sansa Stark… yes, I’m with Joffrey Baratheon.” Sansa looks up at Margaery now and grins widely. 

“Yes,” she continues after a pause. “The Congressman needs another suite. Yes. I’m calling on his behalf. Except, put it on the private Lannister account, and not the Campaign? Thanks. The last suite, you said? We’ll take it.” Her eyes are twinkling now. “Beggars can’t be choosers, after all.”  

Margaery manages to close her mouth when Sansa finally hangs up. Both women stare at each other, a chaos of emotions running amok between them. But above it all, a new and closer bond emerges. A sisterhood. 

“Grab what you need from this room for your disguise. Then go down and collect the key to your suite — it should be ready by the time you’re done here. And then do me a favour and pass Petyr my key. I want him to enter my room himself. He’s still at the Red Keep, but near the foyer so you don’t need to get through security again.” 

“Not leaving this room?” 

Sansa grins, tilting her head at the last bag of rose petals. “I have to get ready.” 

* * *

The only indication of Petyr’s consternation and surprise is a subtly raised eyebrow. Other than that, Petyr accepts the keycard from Margaery as if she were nothing more than a courier.

Margaery knows not to say anything either. The drop has been made. She has made it this far — through the lobby of the Ritz, past a bar filled to the brim with Lannister campaigners, past lobbyists and activists and goodness knows how many others on both sides of the political aisle before she makes the sharp right into the service lift and out of sight. 

_I'm a bloody champ,_ Margaery tells herself. _Queen of fucking disguises, honestly. I should get a job with Varys..._

“Margaery!” Olenna cries out now. “What are you doing out and about still? Nevermind — I want you to meet some people from the Ways and Means Committee.” 

Petyr watches as Olenna tucks Margaery’s hand firmly in the crook of her arm and escorts her favourite granddaughter back inside the ballroom.  

He glances at his watch, still clutching the keycard. The Congressman had finally left the building ten minutes ago, both men agreeing to call it a night. 

Petyr slips away. 

* * *

He’s just about to ring the door chime when he belatedly remembers Margaery’s instruction to just help himself inside.

Petyr slides the keycard in and the door opens on his very first try. The standing lamp is the only thing lit when he enters the room. It’s one of the deluxe ones with a connecting study. Petyr kicks off his shoes lazily and starts losing his kit, leaving behind a sexy trail of his clothes like fucking Hansel and Gretel — one sock, another, his tie, the dinner jacket summarily discarded… 

His mockingbird cufflinks, dropped on the study table. His crisp, white shirt. His belt as he slowly slides it from his belt loops… 

She’s not in the bedroom, and he’s slightly disappointed but there’s always opportunities, he knows. 

The pants come off at the door, and then he drops his boxers in the middle of the room before he climbs onto the soft, smooth sheets. Petyr starts stroking himself, already seventy-five percent there. 

He’s been waiting all night. He doesn’t know if he can wait any longer. Just the thought alone of her picking through his clothes to finally walk into the room and find him naked on the bed… Petyr’s about to puncture a wall with his hard-on now. 

He’s been waiting all night. He really hopes that when she finally returns, she’ll get straight to the… point.  

His ears prick up. _Just in time,_ he thinks. He can hear the door open and he arranges himself in position now, draping across the bed on his side, cock hard and at full attention. 

There is a pause and he thinks to himself that she’s found his clothes. He’s grinning right up until the point when Tywin rounds the corner. 

_“Is there a reason you’re naked in my bed?”_

* * *

She’s finally in position but it’s starting to get a bit chilly out here, she thinks, instead of under the covers.

Sansa pokes her head up from the pillows and looks around for her phone. It’s on the side table and she reaches over carefully now, not wanting to upset the arrangement of petals.  

_Bloody hell,_ she sighs. It’s just a bit too far. _Is nothing ever simple?_

She struggles across now and grabs her phone finally, texting Petyr deftly that she’s here and waiting. That she has a surprise. She lies back down again and arranges the petals carefully over herself once more. Lots across her pussy. A few scattered enticingly over her torso. Two or three balanced very carefully over her nipples. 

It’s only when she looks across to the other side table that she notices Margaery’s phone.  

* * *

_“Well?!”_ thunders Tywin Lannister now, but Petyr’s brain is in overdrive.

Tywin glowers at the man he trusts almost as a much as Kevan, his own brother. Which isn’t saying all that much about his trust in his own brother, really. But such are the facts as they stand. 

This turn of events, however… Both men are staring at each other, words mostly failing them in their temporary stupefaction. 

Until. 

“You’re sleeping with the Tyrell girl!” And Tywin’s eyes harden into flint as the penny drops. As Petyr Baelish’s eyes light up, first in triumph at deducing the answer followed almost immediately by shock and horror. 

_“You’re fucking the Tyrell girl?!”_

“What the hell are you doing here!” 

“Same as you, I think!” replies Petyr and Tywin starts towards him now, fists clenched. _Baelish, fucking his beautiful Margaery? In his own suite?!_

“I wasn’t waiting for Margaery—“ Petyr’s quick to explain now, jumping up. “We’ve obviously got our signals crossed. But Tywin — Olenna’s granddaughter? REALLY?!” 

“Get out of my room!” 

But Petyr is reeling now, his face creased in anguish and anger as he runs through the implications. “How much does she know?” he demands now, the temerity of the man. Petyr drags his hand down his face and groans. “She knows where we are… where we’re going to next…” Another thought clouds his face as he grimaces. “She told Sansa that they’re going to Old Town next. What if she’s playing us all?! I just got Ros to change our flights to Dorne so we can blindside them because I thought they were gonna faff around in Old Town. What if this is all a ruse!” 

“It’s not a ruse.” 

“It’s Margaery Tyrell! Olenna’s girl!” 

“I KNOW THAT. IT’S NOT A FUCKING RUSE!” 

“Who else knows, Tywin!” And Petyr is turning ashen now. It’s unnerving, really. In all the years that Tywin’s worked with Baelish, he’s yet to see the man raise his voice at anyone, much less him.  

There’s a first time for everything, he supposes. 

“Are there pictures?” And Petyr’s eyes narrow. “Or a nasty video? What are the chances of this leaking to the media, Congressman? The fucking headlines!” And Petyr’s really pissed now, utterly forgetting himself. “ _Conservative Congressman In Congress with Liberal Party Girl!_ ”  

“It’s not like that!" 

" _‘I can’t imagine what sort of dirty old man would sleep with an innocent young child like my darling granddaughter!’_ ” sobs Petyr now in a faux Olenna voice.  

“HOW DARE YOU!” 

“Everything we’ve worked for, Tywin! If this gets out…” 

“It won’t get out.” 

“Stranger things have happened!” 

Tywin stares coolly at his irate campaign manager, still butt-naked, his erection now clearly flagging.  

“Stranger things have,” Tywin drily agrees.  

* * *

The door is clicking and whirring and clicking and whirring, and Sansa is starting to get annoyed with Petyr despite her best efforts.

_It’s a standard hotel door,_ Sansa rolls her eyes. _Surely you’re not so horny that you can’t even work a simple keycard system NOW, of all times…_

She wills herself to patiently wait. She’ll be damned if she has to spoil the surprise now, after a whole night of mucking around with these stupid petals.  

She’s just about to give up when the banging on the door starts. 

“Sansa!” Margaery about yells, her voice muffled and frantic behind the door. “I’ve given the wrong key!” 

* * *

They both hear the two men in the corridor right before they enter the room. The words are muffled, but it’s obvious that they’re far from happy ones.

“You have some gods-damn _nerve!_ ” Tywin is seething now, his voice dangerously low and controlled. “How _dare_ you question my choices! My private life—“ 

“Your private life is my _business_ , Tywin! You know how this works!” 

“And you have yet to explain yourself, Baelish! What the hell are you doing here? AND PUT ON SOME DAMN CLOTHES, FOR FUCK’S SAKE!” 

Both women burst into the room then, and there is a heavy, awkward silence as the four of them regard one another, each of the men putting the final pieces of the puzzle in place.  

Both women look as guilty as fuck. 

Tywin stares at Sansa and gestures to Petyr, tone drier than the deserts of Essos. “You’re with him?” 

“Yes,” she manages to squeak, wishing for the earth to swallow her now. 

Tywin turns slowly to stare at Petyr, his mouth twisted to the side. “Who’s the dirty old man now, Baelish?” 

“It’s all my fault,” Margaery sighs finally. “I gave Petyr the wrong keycard. He’s supposed to be in Sansa’s room. And I’m supposed to be in this one.” 

Another long pause and Petyr finally thinks to grab a pillow, demurely covering his cock. 

“Let’s pretend that none of this ever happened,” Tywin finally commands and there’s a loud hiss in the room as all three of them heartily agree. 

“Can we go now?” Sansa meekly asks, not daring to look Tywin in the face. 

There is a pregnant pause as Tywin stares at both Sansa and Petyr, the latter now standing beside her, his arm protective around her shoulder. 

“Get out.” 

And that is all the instruction that anyone needs. Sansa practically scuttles out the door while Petyr tiredly picks up his trail of clothes after her, hopping behind as he struggles with his pants. 

Margaery turns as well. 

“Not you,” the Old Lion says, catching her wrist, a familiar heat in his golden-green eyes. In his hand are the twelve brand new condoms.

* * *

Petyr slips the keycard in the slot and it greenlights on the first try.

He finally enters Sansa’s room and it feels like he’s been on a quest. 

The first thing he sees is the roses. There are petals everywhere, fragrant and blood-red. Beautiful. 

And Petyr sags against the wall and starts to laugh. 

“It’s not funny,” Sansa mumbles, thoroughly put out. She sounds a little hurt. 

But oh, how can he even begin to explain, he wonders. He reaches out now and clasps both her wrists, pulling her gently to him. 

“I’m not laughing at you, sweetling.” And he kisses her finally, their tongues finding each other and a sigh escapes her throat as he feels her yield. 

And slowly, so slowly, he walks her back to that gorgeous bed of roses that he likes so very much. He tugs at the zipper and his pants hit the carpet for the second time this evening. 

Then gently, he eases her down on that bed, taking his time to stroke her cheek, to smile into her eyes and chuckle once more. And Sansa finally sees the lighter side and starts to chuckle too. 

He kisses each breast, flicking a nipple lovingly with his tongue as he makes his way down before finally scooping a handful of petals and arranging them reverently on the prettiest pussy in all of Westeros.  

**Author's Note:**

> All because of #6 in this [prompt list](http://bellamyblakesz.tumblr.com/post/111909165950/send-me-a-pairing-and-a-number-and-ill-write-you). The prompt: “Is there a reason you’re naked in my bed?”
> 
> The dialogue between Petyr and Sansa in the first scene is ~~heavily lifted~~ inspired by a scene in The West Wing, when CJ and Danny talk about when they finally didn't talk. 
> 
> As usual, I welcome your thoughts and hellos. Hope you enjoyed this one, even without much smut. I had a ball of a time putting this one together.
> 
> And as always, love to apocketfulofwry who inspires and squees along each and every time. xx


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